Not just for the Case
by explodedchildren
Summary: Sherlock and John have to pretend to be partners for a case involving a homophobic serial killer. In the end, some hidden feelings are uncovered. Fluff, angst, minor violence/non-graphic violence and no smut, but lots and lots and lots of kissing, awkwardness and cuteness. R&R please!


"JOHN!"

Sherlock's bellow – there really was no other word more suitable for that _noise_ that came out of his mouth – is so loud it had John cringing against his laptop, one decibel away from covering his ears.

"What?" his flatmate wondered, in a sigh that is more in defeat than in exasperation. He was used to this, by now. A tiny part of him mulled why he wasn't bothered about how _annoying_ Sherlock could be.

"Get your coat. We've got a case."

"But I've-"

"Got a date, I know. It can wait."

"But Sherlock-"

"I can always just leave you here, y'know. You don't _need_ to come."

John wasn't sure whether he was more relieved at being permitted to choose for himself what he wanted to do, or hurt at the idea of not being needed.

Sherlock frowned. "You're better at this than some of the actual police. Besides, Anderson's on today. You know he won't work with me. It's up to you, though. I'm leaving now."

Was that meant to be...reassurance? John shook his head, to himself more than to Sherlock, and shut the lid of his laptop. "I'll come. I'm coming. One minute."

"Fantastic. Here's your coat." Sherlock held out John's jacket, grinning somewhat manically, and tossed it at the older man. "Come on, then!"

Before John could protest, Sherlock had thrown the door open and barged down the stairs, running into Mrs Hudson, almost knocking her over, dancing backwards to steady her and kiss her once on the cheek, and then continuing on to the street. He'd already hailed a cab by the time John had answered Mrs Hudson he didn't know where they were going or when they'd be back.

John climbed into the taxi and found Sherlock only budged over as far as the middle seat to make room for him, so they were touching and leaned on the other every time the cab jerked to the side. "You'd better get used to this," Sherlock informed John clinically, but the other man was not yet ready to reply, as it felt like there was an electric current sparking between Sherlock's body and his own, running through him at every point he was touching Sherlock.

"Ah...um..." Sherlock mistook John's confusion about his own body for confusion about his cryptic statement.

"The serial killer," he began: never a great start to a sentence. "He – or she – targets homosexual males, typically in couples. But he's very good at it; Lestrade says there's next to no evidence. Of course, it's almost certain he's missed something, but he's not as terrible as the others are. In fact, he's moderately decent! I might change my mind after I've visited the scene, but of the eight ideas I have, the two of us pretending to be in a relationship is the best one."

John was, admittedly, just _a little_ taken aback. "So you want us...to pretend to be dating...so that we can lure a murderer into trying to killing us?"

Sherlock nodded, grinning slightly. "Basically, yes."

"And...how long will we have to _pretend_ for?"

"Until the killer decides we're next." There was an unnatural glint of something like joy in Sherlock's eye, and while he enjoyed working cases, he never looked quite _that_ happy.

"How do you know he'll even pick us?"

"It's a police officer. It has to be. At least, someone with a lot of experience working with the police: they know too much for it to be anyone else. Either they'll be at the scene, or keeping a close eye on it. We're bound to be targeted." His grin didn't waver.

"Great," was all John said, and he didn't bother speaking when Sherlock grabbed his hand, entwining their fingers accordingly.

"Remember to lean towards me," Sherlock prompted him. "Look straight at me when either of us is talking, but watch my lips instead of my eyes. It's all about body language."

John nodded slowly. "Right..."

Lestrade was already there when Sherlock actually _leapt_ out of the taxi, dragging John behind him. The DI's arms were folded as he rocked on his heels behind the crime scene tape. "Sherlock!" he called, when said man came into view. "We've found-"

He stopped, catching sight of John's hand in Sherlock's. John opened his mouth to explain, but Sherlock elbowed him, hissing: "It has to look genuine. It could be him!" John highly doubted it was Lestrade, or Sherlock even thought it was, but he sighed and pouted slightly regardless, keeping his hand in Sherlock's. Sherlock didn't want to admit the only reason he'd lied to John was that he liked the warmth and the security of their hands being connected.

"People will definitely talk now," John whispered back, half a smile tugging at his lips. He didn't want to think why.

Sherlock winked at him. "So they should! Do you want this killer to follow us, or not?"

John opted not to answer that, and Lestrade continued when Sherlock and John got nearer, seeming to have recovered his momentary surprise. "We've found something, finally. The killer's getting stupid, or bored. I'm guessing he wants to be caught: he's been too clever so far for this to be an accident. There was a hair, and several fingerprints. We're processing it now."

"Anderson's here," Sherlock sneered, completely ignoring everything the DI had just said.

Lestrade nodded slowly. "Yes. He works in my team. He's almost always going to be here, you know that." The detective inspector's eyes were slowly narrowing sceptically at Sherlock.

"I don't like it when he's here," Sherlock pouted, but he didn't elaborate any further before he pulled John under the tape and bounced towards the house. "Smells exciting," he grinned, still dragging John along with him.

Two dead bodies, three cups of coffee, seventeen snarky comments and one punch in the face later, John found his fingers once again entwined with Sherlock's, somewhat strangely adoring the sensation, as he pressed an increasingly red cloth to Sherlock's cheek. "I told you to shut up," John scoffed at his flatmate, but there was no real disproval in his tone. Anderson was irritating, Sherlock just...needed to learn to _be quiet_. The worst part was, it wasn't even Anderson who'd hit Sherlock. It was Sally.

And, really, John couldn't blame her. Given that it had taken place away from the crime scene, and Sherlock had elected not to press charges, Sally had only been briefly _told off_ by Lestrade, like an insolent child, and was now sitting smugly across the room from them. Sherlock flexed his jaw, winced dramatically, and then stood up, dragging John to his feet in a surprising bout of strength. Maybe it was the adrenaline.

"Come on!" Sherlock exclaimed as he leapt to his feat, cringing inwardly at the pain cause by speaking. _That_ was going to be a problem. "Killer to catch," he continued pointedly, and John didn't really have much of a choice but to follow him – not that he'd have chosen any differently anyway – given that Sherlock's grip on his hand was vice-like.

John rolled his eyes, but easily caught up with Sherlock. He ran faster anyway, the other just had longer legs. "Where are we going now?" he asked when his flatmate slowed to a jog.

Sherlock didn't reply, but indicated discretely to a rooftop that looked about a quarter of a mile away. John turned to look at it, but Sherlock tugged him back, jarring his shoulder, hissing, "Don't make it obvious."

John spun around again, slowly this time, glancing up at the rooftop. There was a tiny figure perched by the chimney, which Sherlock insisted was the murderer.

"How do you know?" John frowned, not taking his eyes off the roof.

"Instinct, actually," Sherlock replied, sounding almost embarrassed. "But now that I have thought about it, I have eight theories of why he is there, and twenty-seven reasons I know it is him. Firstly, the way he is-"

"Okay, okay, I believe you," John half-grimaced, thinking how long it would take for him to explain every single idea.

"We should-" Sherlock cut himself off by taking a tiny step towards John and taking the other man's wrists in his hands, wrapping them around his waist and looping his right arm around John, and using his left to pull John's face closer to his, two fingers gentle but hard on his chin.

Sherlock pressed his lips against John's own mouth, and he was too shocked to react until Sherlock had already pulled away. Disappointment swelled in the pit of his stomach, but Sherlock repeated the action, sweeter and fiercer this time, closing his eyes and gripping onto John's hair. This time, he was ready, and kissed Sherlock back, enjoying it a little too much. He wasn't supposed to enjoy this. He wasn't supposed to be _doing_ this at all.

Sherlock pulled back again, panting, and kept his hands pressed somewhat painfully, though not altogether unwelcome, into John's hair for a few seconds more. "Perfect," Sherlock murmured, and then completely detached himself from his pseudo-partner.

"See you tomorrow, love," Sherlock said, louder, and walked away from John, down the street to the bus stop. John frowned, confused, but had the sense not to follow him. Instead, he paused, using his phone as an excuse, until he saw which bus Sherlock was getting on, before sliding his mobile back into his pocket and heading off in the opposite direction. Before long, he received a text from Sherlock.

**The suspect was following me, he just saw me get off the bus near your surgery. Get the tube to Baker Street, but don't go in our flat. I don't want Mrs Hudson to know. –SH**

John was perfectly aware that Sherlock wanted to protect Mrs Hudson, not elude her, but didn't point that out. Instead, he replied:

**Is he following me now? What does he look like close up? –John**

**Most likely. Tall, about 6'5, slightly overweight, chin-length fair hair, beard, round glasses. He was wearing a stupid hat and a duffle coat. –SH**

**I'm on the tube. What should I do when I get to Baker St? –John**

**Wait for me. I got a very blurry picture of him which I've just sent to Lestrade. They should be just around the corner, we'll have to catch him looking suspicious before they can arrest him. If you can get him to follow you and maybe try to attack you, Lestrade will have a better reason to take him. I won't let you get hurt, though. I'll be on the roof of 221, so I'll be able to see the police and you. You've just got to make sure he's still with you, then run. –SH**

**Sounds like a laugh. I think I can see him in the carriage next to me –John**

**That's good. Look at him until he notices you; try to look vulnerable. Smile at your phone. –SH**

**At my phone? –John**

**Like you're talking to your partner, like it's making you happy. I'm at Baker Street now. –SH**

**I'm about 5 mins away. See you soon –John**

**Good luck. -SH**

John sighed at that, thinking he might need it. Right. So he had to get off the tube, check the blond guy was still following him, without him noticing, walk outside and make sure he was near their flat before the guy went for him. And then he had to run. Could it be that difficult?

Well, it sounded easy. All he had to do was look for the man and then run. But there was so much that could go wrong...

He'd be fine. He always was. And Sherlock said he'd look out for him. For some reason, that filled John with a sense of hope, reassurance, trust...something. More than what he'd expect, given that Sherlock's fighting skills were limited at best, and that the detective had no idea how to defend himself.

Sure enough, when he turned around, the bearded blond man was still there, behind a crowd of people pushing and shoving to get on the escalator. John ducked to the side, pretending to tie his shoelace by a vending machine, waiting for the suspect to get on the escalator. Then he dodged his way to the stairs and jogged up them, so he was out of the tube station a lot faster than he would have been if he'd had to fight through the crowd.

He kept jogging until he reached the corner, and then he simply strolled down the street, standing still to look at his phone until he heard footsteps not too far behind him. He started walking again, and turned round to look the suspect in the eye.

"You're the-you're the man from the tube, aren't you?" he stuttered, working to make his voice nervous. Discretely, he looked up and saw a faint silhouette on the roof of 221. Sherlock was there, then. He could feel his pulse pounding at his wrist with the sudden course of adrenaline, and wondered if Sherlock felt the same.

Then he remembered that it didn't matter, and Sherlock certainly wasn't thinking of _his_ feelings.

"Where's your boyfriend?" the other man asked, cocking his head sideways.

John thought about what he would do if it were a real situation: if Sherlock was really his boyfriend, if he was really unaware of what was happening, if he really didn't understand how this stranger knew his partner.

John thought about it, and then he ran.

Half a second and the first three pounding strides passed, and then John's clattering footsteps mixed with heavier ones as the murderer set off in pursuit of John, unknowingly towards the police cars. John sprinted for about forty seconds, to the end of the street and around the corner, but he could feel the suspect catching up quickly. John was fast, but this man was taller: longer legs made it easier for him to keep up. Through the sound of both their feet on the ground, John could hear him panting, but he didn't show any sign of slowing down. Finally, he caught the back of John's coat, but the ex-soldier turned around and kicked him, freeing himself and causing the murderer to yelp, in pain or surprise. He hurried off as soon as he could, but a few moments later, the other's footsteps resumed.

John had run a lot further, faster than he thought possible, in the direction he thought Lestrade would be when he heard the hard clatter, like rock on rock, and a millisecond later, a thump behind him. He kept running for a few seconds, and then turned, walking backwards still in case it was a trap. But in the twilight, he saw blood seeping out from the suspect's head, so he took a tentative step forward, and then another. He glanced up, but Sherlock's figure was nowhere in sight on the rooftop.

He went to kneel by the suspect, checking his pulse and breathing and determining he was fine, simply unconscious. In a few minutes, he'd wake up, probably concussed, hopefully with the police surrounding him. John remembered Sherlock mentioning that the murderer was a police officer, but he didn't recognise the unconscious man, so he couldn't have been one of Lestrade's.

Curious, he searched his pockets and found a driver's license and police ID. But then he was distracted, because there were more footsteps, and a siren: Sherlock appeared first, followed by two people John couldn't make out, and a police car. Lestrade and Sally turned out to be the people just behind Sherlock, and John tossed the IDs at Greg when he was close enough.

Lestrade nodded. "This is the name we matched his DNA to," he explained, and hesitated for a second. "What...what happened to him?"

John shrugged, looking over at Sherlock. "He just fell. I can't see anything wrong with him, other than the fact that the blow to his head knocked him unconscious, so he must have tripped."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the heavily breathing body on the floor, and murmured, just to John, "Thank you."

John looked up knowingly, not meeting Sherlock's eyes. "Thank you," he whispered back, as more sirens appeared in the distance, and two uniformed police officers hauled the now conscious man upright, handcuffing him.

After the forensics and the check-ups and the statements and the photographs, and when everyone had gone – the detectives, the police, the ambulance and the dazed but violent murderer – Sherlock grinned to himself and turned around, setting off in the direction of home. John joined him, until he took a deep breath and stopped. Immediately, Sherlock spun round on his heel to look at his friend. John took another steadying breath and spoke shakily.

"That, um, what we did before, in the street-"

Sherlock understood at once, the bastard. "The kissing?"

"Um yes. That."

"What about it?"

"It was, um. Good. It was good. I mean, um, yeah. It was...you were...Effective. Very effective. For a, a disguise, you know? Very...realistic."

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

"Oh, I, err... Sorry."

John moved so that he was staring at the tarmac, angled slightly away from Sherlock, embarrassed. There was no point trying to hide his feelings from the genius now, and he was terrified about what this would mean. Would he...well, it would be so awkward. Living together. Maybe he'd have to move out – maybe Sherlock would want him to. And what then? Because what was he without Sherlock, really? Without the army and without Sherlock he was nothing. And now he'd lost both of those, certainly...

Meanwhile, Sherlock was balanced on the balls of his feet, rocking uncertainly, deliberating. It was the way John moved away from him that did it: apprehensive and silent. He was, what, 99% certain that this would be what John wanted? Still, he was nervous as hell, because what if he didn't want this? What if he didn't want _Sherlock_? Why would he? Nobody else ever had.

It didn't matter. None of it mattered. Sherlock took a decidedly brave step forward – John didn't move – and bent down just a little so John's face was nearly level with his, taken in both Sherlock's cold – but not clammy, _definitely_ not – hands. His lips crushed John's, and an earth-shatteringly long second lasted before he kissed him back.

The two of them stood there like that for a long time, until they remembered the need to breathe. They pulled away, impeccably synchronised, gasping, and then _laughed_. All the built up adrenaline had nowhere to go, so it came out in giggles, both men clinging to each other for support so they didn't fall over and roll around on the floor, gasping for air. When it became a little easier to breathe, Sherlock bobbed down a tiny bit to kiss the top of John's head, and the doctor smiled and leaned into the detective's chest. Sherlock held him close, wrapping his oversized coat around both of them and sighing in satisfaction, then bent down to kiss John again.


End file.
